


after

by RaeOfFrickingSunshine



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: He deserves so much better, inner monologue, jj focussed drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23873485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeOfFrickingSunshine/pseuds/RaeOfFrickingSunshine
Summary: He’d set himself on fire for them. He realises this as he sits in the cool cell. He’d use his bones as kindling, if it kept them warm.jj is secretly the best pogue, post season 1 drabble
Comments: 27
Kudos: 162





	after

JJ Maybank does not think much of himself. It’s a statement of truth rather than anything more. A culmination of being curled on the floor with his father above him, fists clenched, spitting _stupid piece of shit_ and _I wish you’d never been born_ and JJ’s cheek to the peeling linoleum of the kitchen floor thinking vaguely _me and you both, dad._

It’s the fact that his mom left when he was eight, which is still old enough to remember her and so makes it all the crueller. That he came home from school and him and his dad came to the realisation at about the same time; the letter on his parent’s bed in her looped cursive, the emptied-out closet. His father turned to him and struck him across the face with a flat palm, one which made him fall backwards but not to the floor. Those came later.

JJ’s dad had always been physical – big into hugs, into slapping his mom’s ass in public, into flinging his mom across the house until she collides with the wall. His mom was more reserved, all light touches, pushing her son behind her. Until one day she didn’t.

Three weeks after his mom left a teacher is despairing, snaps, “I’m going to tell your parents about this,” and JJ replies, “parent, my good for nothing mom has gone,” and John B finds him at recess. Offers him half of his sandwich, which is stale and dry but better than nothing.

“My mom left when I was three,” John B explains. “It sucks.”

JJ can’t argue with that. He takes the sandwich.

From then on it’s not just JJ, it’s JJ and John B. JJ buys him a blue bandana for his eleventh birthday and John B ties it around his neck, grinning. It’s John B’s house JJ drags himself to when he’s twelve and his dad goes too far, bruises red on his neck. It’s John B who is old enough to understand but young enough to nod gravely when JJ tells him to tell no one. They curl up on the knackered pull out couch and John B pretends not to hear JJ crying.

John B’s dad buys him a proper board when he’s twelve, and they both learn how to surf. The Kooks are all there, a board each, branded board shorts. JJ’s are a pair he acquires from outside one of the touren shops in town, and he has to tie the drawstrings extra tight so they don’t slip down his hips.

John B is like a pied piper, sometimes, but it’s always JJ who he turns to. Until he partners with Pope on a science project. Suddenly the new boy is everywhere, all snapbacks and cool assessment. JJ knows what people say about him – about how he can snap and throw a chair across the classroom, or how he is like tinder paper, ready to catch fire at any moment. John B exchanges looks with Pope when JJ gets outrageous which makes JJ want to scream.

Pope tries to surf a ridiculous swell (he has his own board, and JJ has to sit on the shore and watch John B and Pope, waiting for his turn) and falls, but doesn’t come up. JJ’s in the water, sitting on John B’s board, and he watches carefully. For half a second he thinks about turning away, but he doesn’t. His arms power him towards where Pope’s board bobs cheerfully, and he’s diving under the waves and pulling him out, draping the boy in front of him. He swims them back to shore, towing Pope’s board behind his, and John B presses on Pope’s chest on the sand. In the end it’s JJ’s slap to the face that brings him round.

“Don’t hit him, bro!” John B scolds, outraged, but Pope’s breathing now, raggedly, spluttering, and JJ throws a triumphant look at his best friend. John B rolls his eyes at him.

Pope buys JJ a board two weeks later. JJ stares at it. “I ain’t no charity, man.”

The board is tucked under Pope’s arm and he’s distinctly not looking at JJ. “This isn’t charity. Just payback, for the other day.”

It feels like pity, but JJ takes it anyway.

It takes longer to accept Kiara.

“Who the fuck is that?” he demands, when John B brings her to his house. JJ’s rolling a blunt, cross legged on the pull out. Pope’s attempting to make eggs in the kitchen and by the smell of it, failing.

“I’m right here,” Kiara complains.

“I can fucking see that. Who is she?” JJ demands of John B.

His best friend sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “This is Kiara. She’s good. JJ, be nice.” JJ wonders how he can be, when no one’s ever taught him how.

Pope accepts Kie almost immediately, probably because he can’t take his eyes off her. JJ is beginning to thaw, slowly, then Kie makes friends with Sarah Cameron of all people, and JJ’s throwing a knowing look at Pope as John B calls her repeatedly and never gets a response.

Then almost a year later Kie’s back, prettier than before, more exposed skin. She’s pushing Pope over and throwing herself down dramatically on the bench. Making sure the cooler is always packed, that the boat is always running smoothly.

It’s when she covers for JJ, when he steals friendship bracelets from a touren store and the lady yells “get back here you piece of shit!” and Kie takes them from JJ’s hand, pushes him forwards. JJ likes the disappointed slump of the shopkeeper’s shoulders as he turns out his empty pockets slowly, deliberately.

He’d meant to take three, but had accidentally grabbed four. And Kie’s looking at them in her palm, and then at him.

“You’re not as tough as you think you are.” At that, he pushes her into the dirt, and snatches the bracelets from her.

“I’m not sure you deserve one,” he tells her loftily and puts two on his wrist. She takes one anyway, later on, when JJ’s vision rolls gently. Her nails are soft on his wrist and she takes the blue, leaving the green, which is JJ’s favourite colour.

He fights the Kooks, when one calls Pope a fag, when one sneers over Kie. When someone comes up behind John B and pulls the bandana JJ bought him tight around his neck. It’s a red mist, instinctive, limbs trembling with anger. Until there’s blood on his knuckles, from his knuckles, until John B pulls at his shirt and his shoulders and yells at him to quit.

It’s always him and John B, until John B finds a new girl every few weeks. Then it’s JJ and Pope and Kie. They still take John B’s boat and pack a cooler, and it’s not that much different.

JJ sets fire to the school mostly by accident. He’s excluded for three weeks. His dad paints him black and blue, knowing he won’t be going out. JJ thinks his nose cracks and it hurts to breath, hurts to move, so he sleeps on the kitchen floor and washes the blood off the next day.

They text and ring him persistently, and eventually John B comes around and knocks on his window at night. JJ cracks it open.

“Where you been?” John B demands. “I thought I’d have to be dragging you out my house now you’ve got fuck all else to do.”

“God, you’re like obsessed with me, or something,” JJ complains, but warmth blossoms in his chest.

JJ goes back to the chateau and Pope slides him a sideways look. Kie accepts that he’s fought with some Kooks. “Anyone I need to know about?” she asks mildly, handing JJ the grinder because he’s definitely the best roller.

John B’s dad disappears and they don’t know how to cope. JJ is brazen, harsh, saying “who the fuck needs parents anyway?” and Kie glares over John B’s head.

“Easy for you to say, you’ve still got your dad,” Pope reminds him, and JJ looks away because he’d rather he didn’t, and he wonders whether wishing death on your own father made you a bad or terrible person.

John B doesn’t even complain that much when he takes the gun from the safe. His friend just looks at him solidly, knowingly. “I don’t think I trust you with that thing.”

JJ tucks it in his waistband, the metal cool against his hip. “I don’t think you trust me with anything.”

It’s almost a relief to have it, in some ways. That he has the biggest trump card. When he’s pressing it to Topper’s skull, John B at his feet.

He’d set himself on fire for them. He realises this as he sits in the cool cell. He’d use his bones as kindling, if it kept them warm.

JJ’s not going to say that he enjoys being on the run for John B. But it is the realisation that John B trusts him, trusts them. It’s stressful and painful and emotionally draining, all at once. When his skull’s being bounced off the ground, or he’s standing in the store trying to remember John B’s favourite snacks. Kie rolls his eyes when he’s shoving packets of jolly ranchers into a cupboard.

“Hardly the most nutritious. Or practical,” she complains, but JJ ignores her, feeling sick.

But he looks around, at Pope and Kie standing on the edge of the launch, looking grim. As he holds onto John B, looks at his best friend. “I’ve packed you some jolly ranchers,” and John B looking at him back, almost smiling but not quite. “Don’t choke on them.”

Then John B sails away into a storm and everything goes to shit.

JJ can’t go back home, and he ignores Pope’s request for him to stay at his. Instead he goes back to John B’s and he drips water all over the floor, which John B would usually shout at him when he eventually paddled in the pools and his socks got wet. John B has an irrational hatred of wet socks. But no one does shout, and JJ pulls on one of John B’s sweaters and sits on the pull-out staring at the wall for hours.

Kie turns up at 7am and she bands her arms around his shoulders, but he’s still staring at the wall. “I don’t know who I am without him,” he admits, quietly, and he still hasn’t fucking cried. Kie is making a damp patch on John B’s sweater. She’s not a pretty crier, and no one’s ever taught JJ how to be empathetic and nurturing. He just leans his head on hers and hopes that’s enough.

Pope comes around and makes eggs. Kie is out of tears, apparently, pressing the heel of her palm under her eyes. “I thought you were grounded.”

Pope’s shoulders are tense as he shrugs. “Whatever.”

“It’s shit about your interview, man.” JJ never apologises by saying sorry.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter now.”

Pope burns the eggs, and JJ realises it’s because he can’t see through the tears.

They sit on the porch later and JJ rolls a blunt. Pope takes a drag and JJ doesn’t even have it in him to rib him for it.

The Kooks leave them alone, which is definitely a hollow victory. And annoying, because JJ thinks the only time he’s felt alive recently are when his knuckles are split and he’s defending his friends. Even if it cracks his ribs or knocks sense out of him. At least there was some purpose to it.

Rafe stares at them blankly when they pass, or smirks unnervingly. Ward releases some statement about Sarah’s involvement in events, and paints John B as an abusive, coercive boyfriend who has now kidnapped his girlfriend because she’d discovered he murdered the Sheriff.

The Pogues all corroborate their stories with one another and no matter how many times they’re interviewed, they don’t admit to a single thing. There’s no point trying to frame anyone else. Ward has more money than anyone, and there’s no use trying to fight against that.

Pope and Kie’s parents try to keep them away, to ground them, to put them to work. JJ spends his evenings curled up in John B’s bed. The Pogues always find a way of coming back together – whether Kie slips out the door at midnight, or Pope negotiates the grocery run to come past the chateau.

JJ holds out hope, especially when they never find a wreckage.

“Is this how John B felt, about his dad?” Kie muses as they sit outside. JJ slaps at a mosquito on his arm, blunt clamped between his lips.

“His dad did survive going overboard,” JJ mutters around the joint, and he hunches over to light it, hand cupped around the end. “And John B’s definitely a stronger swimmer than he was, so.” He keeps his eyes on the lighter, and it’s mostly to avoid Pope and Kie, as they look at him almost knowingly.

“He died in the end,” Pope points out bluntly, and it annoys JJ, so he flicks the still-lit lighter at Pope’s head. Pope ducks, and it hits the cushion, sputtering out.

“They have each other. They can huddle for warmth, or do other things,” JJ waggles one eyebrow. The other two aren’t even smiling. They just look at him.

“JJ-” Kie says after a long pause.

“Don’t.”

He knows, logically, the likely result. But logic has never precisely been his strong suit. Maybe his dad has knocked it out of him, or maybe his mom took it with her when she left him behind. John B had always been willing to share his, but now he’s gone and JJ hasn’t got much else.

Objectively, he’s handsome. He knows the way girls look at him. He’s not an end destination, but he is a solid conquest. Definitely one for the bucket list. JJ has his arm looped over a girl’s waist, dozing lightly.

“JJ. For fucks sake,” Kie opens the door and then promptly shuts it again. “A little warning, maybe?”

The girl collects her clothes and leaves quickly. JJ strolls out, sweatpants slung low on his hips. They have John B’s name down one leg.

Kie’s looking at the door the girl’s just left through, and then at JJ’s leg.

“It’s three months today,” she tells him, and JJ doesn’t even have to clarify what she’s talking about.

“He’s not dead,” JJ says confidently, assured.

“Legally, he is.”

“I would know if he was.”

JJ has been excluded permanently from school. One morning he goes to the police station and requests Deputy Shoupe.

“You okay there, son?” the Officer asks, almost gently, as he places his hat on the table and takes a seat.

“I’m just here to tell the truth.”

He doesn’t. He does tell them some half-truths, to keep things realistic. But he absolves Kie and Pope as far as he can.

Shoupe is staring at him, when he finishes. “I’m not entirely sure that’s all true, kid.” JJ stares right back. The man eventually sighs. “I’ll speak to my superior, see whether we’ll be pressing charges. We’ll be in contact.”

Kie flies in later, the door banging against the drywall. “What the fuck did you do? JJ!” he’s taking a piss, but she’s banging on the bathroom door anyway.

“Jesus Christ, can’t a man take a leak in his own home. If you wanted to see the goods, I could arrange an appointment.”

She’s glaring at him when he opens the door. “Why the fuck did I have a fucking cop in my kitchen today telling me they’re dropping all charges against me?”

JJ looks past her and hums. “Lucky break, maybe?”

She takes a step forwards, all unbridled fury. And he doesn’t really mean to, but he flinches backwards, shoulders hitting the wall. Which draws her up short, and she’s suddenly looking at him with sadness, not anger. Which is a lot worse than anger. Anger he can cope with. Anger’s the Maybank language.

Kie says “JJ,” in the way she sometimes says it, low and soft. No one says his name like she can, with something other than annoyance or exasperation or anger.

“You can buy me a few ounces, if you want to say thanks,” he suggests mildly, and he’s shouldering past her. “Or maybe a new bong, since Pope sat on mine.”

Pope must connect the dots as well, but he doesn’t mention it. He does give JJ an awkward hug and JJ stands limply in his arms saying, “what the fuck man? Do I need to get my lube right now?” but he appreciates it all the same.

He’s a joint and a half in and hazy when Pope asks him why.

JJ shrugs and flicks ash off the end of the joint. “You’ve both got a shot of getting out of here, so.”

They sit next to him on the couch then, either side, arms over his shoulders.

And that’s how JJ reckons he’s going to spend the rest of his life. Waiting around for the Pogues to come home. Ending up down shit creek without a paddle to keep the rest of them afloat.

**Author's Note:**

> jj deserves better 2k20


End file.
